Black Flagged Redux

by Steven Konkoly

  “I’ll be sure to pass that on to Jessica. So, I only have one more question.”

  “Oh boy,” Farrington muttered.

  “Although this site certainly fits the bill for a mad scientist’s laboratory, I can probably find you a thousand similar locations around the world. How did the CIA narrow this down so quickly?” Petrovich asked.

  “I assume they started looking in the areas close to Reznikov’s old stomping grounds. The VECTOR research lab is in Novosibirsk, a few hundred miles away, and another major lab is located in Stepnogorsk, roughly a hundred miles to the north in Kazakhstan,” Sanderson said.

  Daniel glanced at Farrington and raised an eyebrow. Despite their personality differences, he had come to trust Farrington’s tactical assessment capabilities, finding them to be remarkably similar to his own. They had worked together to solve señor Galenden’s problems, and Farrington had been Daniel’s first choice for the Kazakhstan mission, although Sanderson had already assigned Farrington to the team. Sanderson had logically placed Farrington on the team because he spoke fluent Russian and was the de facto leader of the Russian AO Group.

  The three other men in the room comprised the newest batch of Russian AO operatives. Sergei, Andrei and Leo, all born in the U.S. to Russian emigrants; all former U.S. military special operations soldiers, all currently fluent in several Russian dialects, and trained to blend seamlessly into Russian surroundings. Apparently, the Russian AO training regimen prohibited regular bathing, as all three of them reeked of body odor and sour breath. They looked rough, ungroomed, and slightly aloof. The effect was amazingly effective. They’d fit in on any Russian street, right down to the brands of clothing they wore on a daily basis. If anyone was going to compromise their group, it would be Daniel, who smelled like a blend of citrus and sandalwood soap.

  “Looks like it’s time to quit showering and shaving,” Daniel said.

  “You should go for a nice, long run in your clothes,” Sergei said in Russian.

  Daniel replied in passable Russian, which he had studied in college, and continued at the compound. Still, his Russian skills left a lot to be desired compared to the four men he would accompany to Kazakhstan under the guise of a Russian mineral survey team. He wouldn’t be doing most of the talking, which probably gave Farrington a sense of satisfaction and relief.

  “Do I have time for a body odor inducing run?”

  “Nyet. You need to leave within the hour. You’ll travel in small groups separately, and I need to route most of you in a fashion that brings you through Moscow. I want you on the ground in Kazakhstan within twenty-four hours. Everyone should head over to the Kremlin and grab all of your clothing and personal travel gear. I need to make a call to finalize your equipment arrangements,” Sanderson said.

  Daniel glanced at Farrington again.

  “Weapons?” Farrington said.

  “I’m thinking pistols and a few concealable submachine guns. Nothing that would raise too many eyebrows in Kazakhstan,” Sanderson said.

  Daniel knew he didn’t have to prompt Farrington any further. Pistols and submachine guns were the standard load-out for a low to medium risk operation. Neither of them believed this operation qualified as such. The CIA didn’t just stumble across this site without some help. If the CIA found it, they could assume the Russians had found it, too. If the CIA and Russian FSB weren’t working together on this one, it would be fair to assume that the Russians had a reason to pursue Reznikov on their own.

  “Upgrade the kit to local assault rifles with good optics. It’s not uncommon for civilian engineers in these areas to bring heavier firepower. We’ll keep most of it concealed in the vehicle,” Farrington said.

  “I assume you agree with this assessment?” he said, looking at Daniel.

  “We’re probably not the only ones interested in this site if I’m reading between the lines correctly.”

  “All right. I’ll make this happen. Take a few more minutes to look at the satellite images and make sure everything is marked on your maps in a discreet fashion. I want you driving out of here in an hour. We’ll meet one more time in fifty minutes. Daniel, can I talk to you for a minute?” he said and walked toward the empty fireplace.

  “I need you back here in forty-five. Your cover will have to be different, and I need to go over it with you. It’ll explain why your Russian is rusty, if anyone picks up on that…and the fact that you look like a spoiled, Latin American trust fund kid,” he said.

  “I wasn’t expecting to make any clandestine trips to Kazakhstan. This isn’t exactly in my job description,” Daniel said.

  “I need someone with your instincts and field experience on this one. Farrington is good, but he still needs some fine tuning. This is a great opportunity for you to hand off the baton to him. I know Jessica’s heart isn’t in the program anymore, though she puts on a good show, and I realize I can’t keep the two of you here forever. I’ve been greedy with your time, and frankly, I didn’t think the two of you would last nearly two years. I expected you to have disappeared by now and I’m really appreciative that the two of you have stuck around as long as you have. Give me one more good op with Farrington and then get back here to finish up what you started with your sniper protégés. A few more months tops, and I’ll support you and Jessica in doing whatever you choose,” he said and stuck his hand out.

  Daniel took the general’s hand firmly, while eyeing him suspiciously. “Didn’t you make this promise to me once before?”

  “We never shook on it, if you remember correctly, and a few unavoidable complications arose.”

  “Well, just to put you on notice, I won’t let any complications get in the way this time, and neither will Jessica.”

  “Fair enough. You better get moving,” Sanderson said and slapped him on the shoulder.

  Daniel turned to the group still hovered around the table. “Rich, make sure the maps are properly marked and the GPS handhelds are programmed before we leave. I’ll meet you at the Kremlin in thirty minutes. Size thirty-two waist. Medium for any shirts—”

  “Daniel,” Sanderson interrupted, “you’ll be joining the team as a travelling executive from an Argentinian mineral exploration company. The company exists, but the reference phone numbers provided to customs in Kazakhstan will forward to a dummy phone center run by an influential Argentinian gentleman who has agreed to help us. You can dress in your usual clothes.”

  “Well, that sure beats having to stop wiping my ass and taking showers. I’ll have to grab some winter gear somewhere along the way. See everyone in a few,” he said and walked out of the lodge.

  Five minutes later, he finished explaining the situation to Jessica, who had been waiting impatiently for him to return. She wasn’t happy with the quick departure, but on the whole seemed all right with the entire package presented by Sanderson. He wasn’t surprised by her quick acceptance of Sanderson’s proposal. Neither one of them relished the idea of simply vanishing. One more operation and a few more months of training, in which both of them could wrap up their core instruction, was reasonable. Each of them could prepare an interim instructor. Melendez could easily outshoot Daniel, and Jessica wasn’t the only qualified knife instructor at the compound. Farrington was more than handy with a combat knife and could take over the training until Abraham Sayar received the final nod from Sanderson.

  Sayar had qualified as an edged weapons and hand-to-hand combat instructor with the Israeli Defense Force’s Sayeret Matkal (Special Forces), but had been dismissed from service in 2006 for an alleged prisoner mishandling incident during the Second Lebanon War. Born in Israel and transplanted to America by his parents, Sayar returned to his homeland at age eighteen and enlisted in the IDF. Upon his dishonorable discharge, he returned to the States to try and join the U.S. Army Special Forces, but met with no “official” success. Identified by contacts still loyal to Sanderson, Abraham Sayar was recruited for an “off the books” program that suited both of their needs.

  Jessica
kissed him passionately as soon as he had finished telling her all of the details, and they pulled each other up the thick wooden stairs to the bedroom loft. They made the best out of the remaining thirty minutes, lustily testing the sturdiness of the queen-sized bed that had arrived at the compound nineteen months ago, to the complete chagrin of Sanderson and pretty much every other operative at the compound. They had spent a lot of productive time together in that bed, practicing for the day that they could put all of this behind them and truly start over on their own terms.

  They both wanted to start a family at some point, but hadn’t seriously considered the idea until recently. The scars of her ordeal in Serbia were still too close to the surface when they had settled in Maine, and he hadn’t been in the best mental shape either, still plagued by a sense of transience and paranoia. Only the prospect of making a clean break from Argentina had started them talking about it, and even then they would still wait. He wasn’t sure how long, but both of them needed to feel reasonably reassured that the ghosts from their past had finally given up.

  Chapter 19

  11:35 PM

  Monchegorsk City Central First Aid Hospital

  Monchegorsk, Russia

  Dr. Valeria Cherkasov struggled up the poorly lit staircase to reach the third floor of the hospital. She had spent the last fourteen hours triaging patients in the overwhelmed ER and finally realized the futility of their efforts. Her trek up three flights of stairs, which was a physical feat in itself given her condition, was motivated by self-preservation more than any lofty Hippocratic ideals. The violence spilling off the streets had reached an unmanageable level, even for the heavily armed platoon assigned to the hospital from the reserve Military Police battalion. The ER served as a beacon for the entire city and had effectively become ground zero for the worst cases.

  All of the other entrances to the hospital had been heavily barricaded, leaving the ER loading bay as the only point of entrance to the hospital. This had worked well for a while, since the steep ramp leading from the back street gave police officers and soldiers higher ground to control the massive crowd that extended nearly one hundred meters in each direction on the tight road. Once up the ramp, patients were corralled into the concrete walled ambulance parking area for initial inspection.

  Triage efforts had devolved into more of an asylum process than a medical one, since the hospital had long ago ceased to exist as an effective medical facility. Patients were screened for severity of disease, with a focus on the far ends of the symptom display spectrum. Patients showing some promise of recovery were provided refuge on the third and fourth floor of the hospital, which were secured and patrolled by military reservists, augmented by the few remaining police officers. These patients were frequently reassessed for possible mental deterioration and removed if they started to exhibit violent or unpredictable behavior.

  This represented the other end of the spectrum, and the second floor of the hospital had turned into a makeshift prison for the worst cases they could identify. Dr. Cherkasov and the remaining hospital staff had decided that this service would be just as important to the citizens of Monchegorsk. The second floor had previously contained an inpatient behavioral health ward and had been outfitted with security features not found on the other floors of the hospital. The presence of such a large ward within the small hospital had surprised Cherkasov when she first reported to the hospital, but she soon came to terms with the fact that Monchegorsk had a history of neurological and behavioral disorders, which were most likely related to decades of heavy metal pollution from the Norval Nickel plant.

  She reached the second floor landing and nodded at the two soldiers standing guard at the reinforced metal door. Three more guards were posted inside and guarded the controls to the door locking system for the entire floor. Another set of soldiers sat on the other side of the building, in the eastern stairwell, guarding the other exit. Within the ward, all of the patients were restrained to beds, chairs or anything solid and stationary. Occasionally over the past few days, a patient would get loose and try to kill another patient or charge the door. Their rage was usually met by a hail of gunfire, and the body was dumped out of a window.

  Cherkasov coughed violently into her thin surgical mask. Since experiencing the first skull splitting headache a few days earlier, her condition had progressively worsened. Flu-like symptoms, just like everyone else. She knew the two soldiers were watching her closely for any signs of sudden unpredictable behavior. Their platoon had suffered its share of casualties from violent behavior directed toward them. They had also seen the illness itself start to claim members of their tightly knit group. For whatever reason, most of the soldiers from the reserve Military Police battalion didn’t get sick, and the ones that started showing signs of the mystery illness were significantly delayed from the general population of Monchegorsk.

  Her symptoms had also been delayed compared to the majority of the hospital staff and citizens. She started to suspect that maybe the outbreak started while she was visiting friends in St. Petersburg. Two weekends ago she had taken the train to meet up with a group of her medical school friends to celebrate their five year graduation anniversary. They had all completed the final internship requirements for St. Petersburg State I.P. Pavlov Medical University in 2002. She had been fine until the weekend. Now, less than a week after her first headache, she was coming apart mentally and physically. She struggled to hold it together as she approached the soldiers sitting on chairs at the door. She didn’t want to end up tied to a water pipe on the second floor.

  “Good evening, Dr. Cherkasov,” one of the soldiers said, adjusting the assault rifle within easy grasp along the wall.

  “I wish it were good, but I don’t see an end in sight. Anything new in there?” she said.

  “It’s getting bad. We had three get loose in the last hour alone. They’re chewing through their restraints…and limbs. We can’t take any more patients on this floor,” the sergeant said.

  “I understand. I’m heading up to talk to your platoon commander. I just gave the order to stop taking any additional patients at the hospital,” she said, squinting through the pain of a migraine headache.

  “You all right, Doctor?” he said, glancing at the younger soldier.

  “I’m fine for now. Anyway, I’m going up to discuss an exit strategy with your lieutenant. Once word hits the street that we’re not accepting patients, all hell will break loose. Worse than it already is. Hell, we’ve been pulling the wool over their eyes for a few days now. Bringing people inside for nothing. Maybe we can get some of the people on the upper floors relocated. I don’t know,” she said.

  Cherkasov raised her foot to start the climb toward the third floor when the stairwell went dark. Three seconds later, the emergency lights activated, bathing them in an eerie orange glow. She didn’t feel panicked by the darkness, instead all she wanted to do was hug the young private who had advised her to take the stairs. At first she had wanted to punch the soldier, but when he told her that they had no way to get her out in case of a power failure, she had relented and shuffled over to the staircase. At least something went right today. She started to laugh at the thought, but quickly changed the laugh into a cough. One inappropriate display of emotion could land her behind that metal door. Laughing in a dark stairwell during the middle of a pandemic easily qualified as improper. The sergeant’s radio crackled and he brought it to his ear.

  “Understood,” he said and knocked on the metal door leading to the second floor.

  He turned to Cherkasov.

  “I’m pulling my men out of the ward. The locking mechanisms on these doors are dependent upon electricity, but they aren’t connected to an emergency backup. Fucking idiots. We’ll have to barricade from the outside to keep any of these crazies from escaping.”

  “Shit. All right. Good luck, sergeant.”

  Cherkasov continued her journey up the stairs, moving slowly through the severe muscle aches in her legs. She coughed most o
f the way up to the third floor landing. A bright light hit her face, followed by an authoritative announcement.

  “Cherkasov is here,” the guard said, lowering his assault rifle.

  The light from the rifle’s side-mounted flashlight left bright green splotches in her vision.

  “Doctor, the lieutenant needs to talk to you immediately.

  “Funny coincidence. I was just on my way up to see him.”

  Cherkasov passed the two grim-faced soldiers and entered the third floor. She was overcome by wailing and whimpering, as hospital staff tried to calm the patients crowded into every conceivable space offered by the modest hospital. Mattresses had been cannibalized from other floors to fill the gaps between beds. The staff and soldiers could barely move through the long hallway, which resembled a refugee camp dormitory. The two emergency lights on the floor, each located above the stairwell doors, barely cast enough light into the room.

  To her immediate right, Lieutenant Altukhov and one other soldier sat huddled around a small coffee table that had been pushed into the corner. On the table sat an olive green communications backpack that held a military VHF radio. The lieutenant held the radio receiver to his ear, while furiously scribbling on a partially opened map with his other hand. The enlisted soldier held a flashlight over a map, illuminating the lieutenant’s work.

  “Hold on, Doc,” the lieutenant said, still writing.

  Gunfire erupted from below, catapulting the entire floor into hysterics. She could barely hear Lieutenant Altukhov yelling to her over the screams and cries for help.

  “Doctor! The ER has been overrun. My men are retreating to the stairwells to cover our escape. It’s time to abandon the hospital.”

  “Escape to where?” she said.

  “Anywhere but here. My commander has lost all communications with the squad assigned to guard the power plant. There’s no reason for the power to fail. He’s pretty sure it was targeted.”